


need a little taste of love

by fiveandnocents



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Hockey Player(s), Chopped AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 04:55:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13803861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveandnocents/pseuds/fiveandnocents
Summary: Tyson has never had this much trouble eating before. He’s great at eating (see: well established food critic moonlighting as a regular judge on Chopped), but it’s just—Chef Landeskog isreally, really hot.





	need a little taste of love

**Author's Note:**

> There are way too many things that inspired this (Tyson's well documented love of food, that one video where Gabe does the Swedish Chef babble, I could go on) so I did a lot of unecessary googling of Swedish food and then also went and bought IKEA meatballs because Swedish food is a delicious dark hole you can never walk away from.
> 
> Huge huge thanks to significant0tters for betaing this for me! They were a superstar and had the perfect mix of cheerleading and constructive criticism to make this fic finished enough for me to actually not squint at it to try to figure out why I felt something was wrong with it.

Tyson has never had this much trouble eating before. He’s great at eating (see: well established food critic moonlighting as a regular judge on Chopped), but it’s just—Chef Landeskog is _really, really hot_. 

He should be examining the consistency of the lingonberry sauce on Chef Landeskog’s plate (flawless, by the way, which is just so unfair), but his mind keeps getting stuck on the way his deep voice makes completely normal words that Tyson hears every day—like _macerated_ and _infused_ —sound like the most erotic words in the universe. 

If he gets hard on television he’ll never live it down. 

It’s torture, is the thing. It’s like he’s getting assaulted through all senses by this gorgeous man that he’s never even met before. Tyson keeps switching between looking at Chef Landeskog wax poetic about his food and when that becomes too much for him, he’s forced to look at an equally appealing plate of Swedish meatballs that he’s been slowly but surely devouring like it’s his last meal on earth. 

“Great work man,” Nate says from next to him and from anyone else it’d be just another generic platitude, but Nate didn’t get to be Denver’s most recent James Beard Award-winning chef by being eager to please everyone else and his plate is almost as empty as Tyson’s. “Honestly, I can’t find anything to criticize. These are way better than IKEA.”

Chef Landeskog laughs and Tyson nearly drops his fork because he’s being _attacked_. This has to be an elaborate prank because how is Tyson supposed to breathe in front of this man, let alone judge him for his nonexistent flaws?

Poorly, apparently, is the answer to that. 

“This is the best thing I’ve ever had in my life,” Tyson blurts out, too genuine and way too eager. 

It’s mortifying. Not like Tyson is ever really good at avoiding embarrassment, but it somehow feels worse this time and he can only imagine how red his face is right now. 

And then Chef Landeskog’s face lights up, like this is the best day of his life and it should help relieve the awkwardness Tyson feels, but instead he starts to get sweaty over how great his smile is. He really hopes they cut a lot of this out. 

“I read your articles,” Chef Landeskog says, and Tyson could faint, “and you’ve eaten a lot, so that’s the best compliment you could give me.” His smile drops a little bit, like he’s just realized he unintentionally called Tyson a glutton, but Tyson could care less. 

“You’re gonna have to show me how you did the sauce because—wow. I just. Thanks for the food,” he finishes lamely and pointedly ignores how Nate and essentially the entirety of the camera crew laugh at him. 

“Anytime,” Chef Landeskog says and Tyson has to be imagining the way the word sounds laced with suggestiveness. 

“Alright chefs,” Dutchy cuts in after what feels like five minutes of prolonged eye contact. “Please allow the judges to deliberate.”

Tyson shamelessly looks at Chef Landeskog’s ass as he walks out. 

Needless to say, Chef Landeskog makes it to the next round and the next and Tyson manages to embarrass himself during each one.

(“Oh my god, how did you make a risotto this good in thirty minutes? No one makes good risotto in thirty minutes. I’ve sat through so much nasty risotto in my life—” and “You made a _molten lava chocolate cake_?” which culminates in an honest to god moan when Tyson actually takes a bite and the cake feels like it melts between every taste bud on his tongue and makes a home there.)

Chef Landeskog wins by a landslide and Tyson almost feels bad for the other competitors—mostly when Chef Skinner tears up a bit and Tyson almost knocks Dutchy out so he can tell someone else they have to go home instead but Nate’s hand on his arm holds him back—because it’s not like any of them were _bad_ , it’s just that Chef Landeskog was just that good. 

Tyson’s palms start to sweat as Chef Landeskog goes through the line of judges, shaking their hands and exchanging pleasantries and Tyson could barely speak to him when there were twenty feet and tasty dishes between them, he can’t imagine it being any better when faced with the full Landeskog experience. 

“Hi,” Chef Landeskog says, suddenly in Tyson’s space and, wow, his teeth are very white. He holds out a hand expectantly and Tyson surreptitiously wipes his palms on his thighs before reaching out to shake it. 

“Chef, hi. Hello,” Tyson stammers and fiercely, sincerely wishes for the ground to swallow him whole. 

“Call me Gabe,” he replies. His smile is leaning more towards a smirk, which is very much not the turn off that it should be. He hasn’t let go of Tyson’s hand. 

Tyson’s gaping openly and stupidly, but he can’t seem to make himself stop. His ears tingle with the heat of his blush and Ch- _Gabe_ is still looking at him with his handsome face and perfect facial hair and crystal blue eyes. 

“I was wondering—“

“Hey there,” Josty interrupts, eyes on the clipboard in his hands, “if you follow EJ over there—blonde guy, missing some teeth, he’s fine—he can help you get everything settled with your prize money.”

Gabe drops Tyson’s hand and takes a step back. “Yeah, of course. Lead the way,” he says, and Tyson has to suppress the urge to grab his hand again and dig his heels in for a few more minutes with him. 

He doesn’t do anything though, unless you count the way he stares longingly at the way Gabe’s shoulders stretch the fabric of his shirt. 

—-

Tyson thinks that’s the end of it. Just another missed opportunity via a completely unprofessional crush on a contestant. 

But then Gabe gets selected for Chopped Champions a few months later and for some ungodly reason, Tyson gets asked to judge the first episode he’s back in because apparently his stammering is good for ratings. 

Nate laughs at him for a solid five minutes when Tyson calls him to freak out about it and he only knows it because it takes Nate that long to call him back when Tyson hangs up on him in completely justified outrage. 

“You’ll be fine,” Nate says when Tyson picks up. “What are the odds he’ll make it the whole way anyway?”

“The odds are _very fucking good_ , Nathan. Do you remember the risotto? And the cake?”

Nate sighs wistfully. “Yeah. Think they’d invite me back if I asked?”

The longing in his voice is something Tyson relates to on a personal level. “I’ll see what I can do.”

—-

It’s like the sickest form of deja vu, but also not, because Tyson can clearly and distinctly remember the last time he was here, at the Chopped Kitchen, Nate at his side and Gabe Landeskog making significant eye contact as Tyson finds nirvana in Gabe’s food. 

It's nettle soup this time— _Nässelsoppa_ , Gabe had said, and Tyson had subsequently failed at keeping any part of his remaining chill.

Gabe gets through the first round because he is some kind of culinary magician. Rants, their other judge for the day, looks bewildered after the appetizer round and when he leans over to whisper, “How was that soup so fucking good? It’s fucking leaves,” Tyson knows that Gabe has this in the bag. 

Sure enough, two rounds, a perfectly seasoned steak, and an assortment of semla pastries later, Gabe is the first chef to make it to the finals of Chopped Champions. 

—-

Tyson’s not expecting it when Gabe comes up to him at the end of taping for the day, even though he should have since Gabe did the exact same thing last time. 

“Hi,” Tyson squeaks and promptly wants to run away. 

“I’m a little newer to Denver,” Gabe says, steamrolling over the awkward pleasantries. Tyson would think that Gabe misses the way Tyson’s voice is refusing to accept the fact that he already went through puberty if it weren’t for the way he’s blatantly smirking at Tyson’s expense. It doesn’t sound like a joke, but the way Gabe is smiling makes Tyson think it might be one anyway. “How about you show me around sometime and I show you how to make that sauce from my first episode?”

Tyson’s mouth waters just thinking of it, and he barely takes a breath before saying, “Please—I mean. Yeah, that would be awesome.”

Gabe’s smirk just widens, and Tyson can feel his heart beating in his ears he’s so stressed. “Here’s my number,” Gabe says, before smoothly taking Tyson’s phone from his hand and plugging his name into his contacts. “Call me when you’re free.”

And it’s just. He likes how in control of the situation Gabe is because Tyson’s brain is probably melting out of his ears and Gabe’s confidence is doing all kinds of wonderfully terrible things to him right now. 

“Uh-huh,” Tyson says, voice squeaking a little as Gabe slips his phone into the front pocket of Tyson’s jeans. 

“See you around.” Gabe fucking _winks_ before he saunters away, and it takes all of Tyson’s strength to keep his knees from buckling. 

—-

Part of Tyson genuinely thinks that Gabe gave him a fake number, so when Gabe actually _picks up_ , he’s really only capable of making a horrifying screeching noise before he hangs up.

His phone starts ringing before he can catch his breath, _The Swedish Chef_ pinging across the screen which shouldn’t even be very helpful since Tyson knows more than one chef of Swedish descent, but there’s no point in kidding himself.

“Hey,” he answers, dipping his voice too low to be casual and leaning against his countertop in a casual sprawl before he realizes that Gabe can’t see him anyway, so he walks to his living to lay face down on his couch. It’s more natural that way. “What’s up?”

“You tell me,” Gabe says, voice tinny and amused. “I have caller ID you know.”

Tyson winces. “Right. Well I’ve just, you know, been uh… thinking about that sauce you said you’d show me how to make sometime.”

He can practically hear Gabe’s smile through the phone. “I can show you more than that. Come to my restaurant tomorrow night.”

“I—what time?” Tyson asks, because he’s definitely looked up Gabe’s new restaurant in Denver, salivated over the menu and read every review he could get his hands on in the last three days and pretending otherwise is just an insult to his culinary interests.

“Seven,” Gabe says, and Tyson tries not to choke.

“That’s your busiest time. I can’t do that.” The idea of it, getting a table at Denver’s newest, most popular restaurant when people have probably bribed people for one is nerve wracking. Actually—“This isn’t going to get you anything in the competition. I’m not even a judge for the finale.”

“I already ran it by the boss,” Gabe says, breezing past Tyson’s statement with all of his charm. “See you at seven.”

\---

Going to _Lavin_ is more nerve wracking than Tyson would have expected.

For one, he doesn’t know what the fuck to wear. Nate talks him down from the edge of that disaster-in-waiting by throwing a suit jacket and a pair of nice slacks at him, but he still has the problem of actually _seeing Gabe_. He almost sweats through one shirt on his drive over and mentally thanks Nate for his foresight in the suit jacket department.

He doesn’t even have a reservation because he’d been panicking about everything else, but when he stammers out his name to the hostess, she just nods and motions for him to follow. If Tyson’s life were easy, this would be the moment he could relax, treat this like any other time he comes in to critique someone’s food, but when they just keep walking and walking until they go into the kitchen where a single table covered with a white linen cloth is sitting, he realizes this isn’t going to be anything like his usual critiques. It takes him a moment, just watching the hostess leave without giving him a menu, when it hits him that he’s at the fucking Chef’s Table, which is definitely _not_ par for the course. He’s used to eating alone; half of his job is going to restaurants alone, but he’s never sat here, close enough to the action to feel the heat from the ovens, hear the hustle of the kitchen during the dinner rush. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to spend too much time wallowing in his discomfort, because it’s barely a minute before he spots Gabe walking towards him from the kitchen, looking unfairly attractive in his white-double breasted jacket, which does incredible things for his shoulders and even more incredible things for his forearms where they peek out of his rolled up sleeves. 

“You made it,” he says, and Tyson would love to stand up to shake his hand, but he literally cannot stand up because his knees are so weak in the face of Gabe’s smile. 

“Yeah, I—this is too much, honestly. You’re really busy tonight.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gabe says. “I wanted to show you what I can make without a time limit. Really this is just to feed my ego. You’re doing me the favor here.”

Tyson calls bullshit from a mile away, but Gabe sets down a chanterelle mushroom plate that could possibly make angels weep due to its beauty and he forgets to call Gabe out on anything. 

“Oh,” Tyson says. 

Gabe rests his hip against the table, which is distracting enough on its own, but then he asks, “Wine?” in a voice that is too sultry for public use. 

“Yeah, yes, um. Whatever you suggest,” Tyson stammers, and Gabe’s smile just gets wider and more smug. 

“Perfect,” he says. He straightens up only to uncork a bottle of Burgundy that Tyson hadn’t noticed and he could cry from the way the muscles in Gabe’s forearms flex. Gabe holds the glass up for him to take once he’s poured and Tyson tries not to drop his glass when their fingers brush. 

It’s delicious, of fucking course. 

The tension in his shoulders sag, releasing all the stress because this is something he can do. He’s a professional foodie and this is just another meal, albeit a meal where a hunky chef waits patiently for him to take the first bite of it. 

His eyes flutter shut of their own accord the moment the first mushroom touches his tongue and he’s not sure what noise he makes and honestly couldn’t care less. He had no clue. No fucking clue of what he was in for. If Gabe’s food was incredible before, with a time limit and ingredient restrictions, it has nothing on this. 

“This isn’t fair,” Tyson says. “You’re trying to bribe me so you win Chopped. I can see through this—this _ruse_.”

Gabe laughs. “Damn, you figured out my master plan.” He brushes a hand over Tyson’s shoulder, lingering. “Wait until you see what else I have for you.”

Gabe doesn’t disappoint. 

Somehow Gabe has time for an actual _six course meal_ between serving his actual customers and Tyson isn’t even mad that it takes almost three full hours to finish because he’s never been in love with food like this before. His next appetizer is herring, lined up in a row on different types of homemade bread and sauces or jams, almost like sushi, and each one is a perfect and distinct bite. He’s shamelessly scraping the leftover dill sauce from his plate onto his spoon when Gabe comes back with his first entree, kroppkakor on a bed of more of that lingonberry sauce that was Tyson’s downfall last time and is most certainly even more deadly combined with the pork and potato filling of the dumplings. Then, in a surprise for the ages, Gabe takes a complete one-eighty from the fancy culinary masterpieces and he brings a simple and hearty stroganoff that Tyson would most certainly kill a man for if it would replicate the way it makes him feel comfortable and relaxed. Tyson mentions that he can’t stand fruit in his dessert and subsequently eats his words when Gabe brings out blåbärssoppa. It’s the segue between the homeyness of the stroganoff and the sweetness of the final dessert course and the rich, sweet berry flavor fills him with a warmth like a hot mug of cocoa on a snowy day. He’s not even surprised that Gabe managed to make him change his mind.

He’s still basking in it, eyes closed and Tyson’s seriously considering loosening his belt two notches when Gabe sits down across from him, the kitchen staff slowly dissipating out of the doors until they’re alone, a single piece of chocolate cake between them. 

“No one cleaned the kitchen,” Tyson remarks, hiding a cringe at the number of dirty pots and pans left. 

Gabe hands him a fork and shrugs out of his coat, muscles bunching underneath his black shirt and a line of sweat at the dip between his collarbones. “I’ll take care of it. But kladdkaka always comes first.” 

Tyson’s brain effectively shuts down and all he can think is _hngh_ instead of anything actually resembling words. 

Gabe takes a bite out of the cake (the back part, like he’s saving the perfect middle part of the slice for Tyson) and it starts to ooze more chocolate, reminiscent of the lava cake he’d made before, but clearly even _better_ which shouldn’t even be possible. Tyson’s mouth waters as he takes a bite and the moment it touches his tongue he wants to freeze time forever because there’s really no way his life is going to be any better than this exact moment. 

“How,” Tyson moans and he can’t even bring himself to be embarrassed by it. 

Gabe smiles around his fork. Tyson tracks the drag of his lips against the tines as he pulls it out of his mouth to say, “Practice makes perfect.”

Tyson’s half-delirious and sleepy by the time he leaves; half from the food and half from the way Gabe had looked at him, lingering and heated, fork forgotten and dangling in his hand. 

—-

Tyson gets the call to be a judge on the Chopped Champions finale the next day. He’s still floating on a post-food cloud, so the call is a disappointing return to reality. If the timing of it weren’t suspect enough, the way Gabe had never denied Tyson’s accusations of subterfuge definitely were. 

“I’m being used,” Tyson says when Nate picks up. 

It says a lot about the state of their friendship that Nate doesn’t even pause before saying, “Yeah, I doubt that. I’ll bite though. For what?”

“He’s—Gabe’s seducing me with food so he’ll win Chopped. My professional integrity is on the line!”

“Wha—Dude, it’s Chopped. Not, like, the Olympics,” Nate says, and Tyson can hear pans knock together over the line and he’s a little offended that Nate isn’t giving Tyson his full attention. 

“Do you know how many viewers Chopped has? It’s the Olympics of cooking. And I’m a _fraud_. Fraternizing with the talent.”

Nate laughs. “It’s fine. You’re not the only judge, Tys. And you have no problem telling someone that something they made sucks.”

It’s a blatant and bitter reference to the time he made Tyson apple pie and Tyson had refused to take a single bite. 

“Hey—that wasn’t about you! I don’t like fruit in my dessert. It’s just wrong. Mushy and wrong.”

“Didn’t seem to have a problem with blueberry soup,” Nate grumbles, but he hasn’t left Tyson yet so he can’t be too exasperated. “Look, don’t worry about the Gabe thing. Let him wine and dine you, and don’t take it into the competition. He’s going to win anyway. He’s never made a single bad thing.”

“Yeah,” Tyson sighs, dreamily reminiscing about the six courses of heaven Gabe had made him last night. “You’re right.”

—-

Tyson doesn’t know why he feels so sick about this. Maybe it’s because Gabe has consistently delivered quality food to Tyson’s waiting hands and he’s just disappointed to find out that Gabe is capable of making mistakes like any chef, or maybe it’s that Tyson isn’t ready to see him leave. 

Dutchy lifts the cloche, and Gabe’s frankly mind-blowing salmon sits there, flawless except for how it’s missing not just one, but two basket ingredients. Dutchy looks appropriately solemn as he says, “Chef Landeskog, I’m sorry, but you’ve been Chopped.”

Tyson isn’t dramatic no matter what Nate says, but he still is eternally grateful that Dutchy has to say it instead of him as he has to take a few deep breaths to hold back the prickling behind his eyes. 

Gabe shrugs and grins. “Yeah I thought so. Thanks for the opportunity, really. I’ve learned a lot about myself through this competition and I’m really grateful that I was selected in the first place.” 

He comes over to shake all of their hands on his way out and when Tyson starts to pull his away, Gabe rests his other hand on top of their clasped ones and squeezes before he lets go. 

Tyson give himself this one moment of weakness and lets himself watch Gabe walk away as he mourns the dessert he’s missing out on. 

—-

Nail Yakupov becomes the winner of Chopped Champions and Tyson can’t even remember what his food tasted like, which makes him feel like an asshole because Nail is probably the nicest person he’s ever met. 

The rest of the taping was a blur, only the dessert course round, which never takes long, but which Tyson usually genuinely enjoys because it’s _dessert_. Nail had made what Nate had described as flawless pirozhkis and Tyson hadn’t even been able to enjoy it because he’d been too busy thinking about Gabe’s stupid face. 

The walk to his car is equally depressing, even with Nate chattering away at him to get him to cheer up. 

“And that’s when—is that a murderer by your car?”

Tyson’s head snaps up from where he’d been pouting at his feet, because joke or not, a person has to be vigilant in situations like this, but instead of a masked madman it’s just Gabe, leaning against Tyson’s car like the romantic lead in every movie Tyson’s seen. He feels Nate clap him on the shoulder and give him a little shove towards Gabe and he only stumbles a little when he gets into Gabe’s space. 

Gabe just grins at him and Tyson’s going to ask what Gabe’s doing here, he really is, but one moment he’s adjusting to being in Gabe’s orbit again and the next he’s wrapped up in Gabe’s arms, trying not to pass out with how thoroughly he’s being kissed. 

He’d always guessed that Gabe would be a great kisser—and he’d thought about it a lot, in many different ways, so yeah, he’s not surprised that he’s one hundred percent right—but there’s being a great kisser and being an entire overwhelming experience that Tyson can feel himself drowning in. 

Gabe’s beard is scratchy against Tyson’s skin and he doesn’t even care, just leans into it, lets himself get held tighter, closer. 

“What’re you doing here? Tyson asks when he pulls away. He curls his hands in the lapels of Gabe’s jacket to ground himself. 

Gabe kisses along his jaw as he speaks and one hand falls down to rest along the top curve of Tyson’s ass in the most unsubtle maneuver Tyson’s ever been subject to. “Now that you can’t be accused of nepotism anymore, I can finally take you on a real date.”

“I—wait. You lost on purpose?” Tyson can barely comprehend it. It’s not like Gabe isn’t going to be wildly successful on his own, but that’s fifty thousand dollars he just gave up. 

Gabe pulls back and raises the haughtiest eyebrow Tyson has ever seen. “You think I’d actually forget two basket ingredients? Come on.”

“But—why?”

One of Gabe’s hands comes up to cup Tyson’s cheek. “It really bothered you—me being a contestant. I’d rather have you than another Chopped win.”

And Tyson _will not_ cry over Gabe’s earnest blue eyes, so he has to kiss him again. 

“Come to my place tomorrow night. I’ll make you dinner,” Gabe says between quick presses of their lips. “Or just cake. Either one.”

Tyson is never letting this man go.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all liked it <3 Join me on tumblr!


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